


i would find it easier to justify making you disappear

by lizzyserf



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Unlimited Tacos (Blaseball Team), and they deserve capri suns, i think wyatt is neat, joint grand unslam + wyatt masoning fic bc i cannot be stopped, uhh theres 1 swear but thats it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:28:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28886847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzyserf/pseuds/lizzyserf
Summary: Wyatt Mason was not a blaseball player to be remembered. They weren't popular, weren't good at the game, and they weren't even hated that much. They were just... unremarkable. Forgettable. Just another player forced to bat until the game was over. There wasn't anything special about them. Right?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	i would find it easier to justify making you disappear

_ERROR: The Grand Unslam Weakened The Bridge_

Wyatt Mason was unremarkable. They were a not-great batter for a not-great team. That’s what the records said, at least. Those things made sense, though. They didn’t play blaseball until joining the Los Angeles Tacos. In fact, not many of their teammates did either. Other things made sense too, like their kickball skills, or the fact that they were allergic to peanuts. What didn’t make sense was their absolutely terrible luck.

Somehow they’d ingested two stray peanuts in the span of two weeks, which put a damper on both their skills and their mood. Other than that, those games were unremarkable, too. Most regular season games were. So on season 3, day 73, Wyatt Mason wasn’t expecting much.

The game had been going good so far, at least for Wyatt. They were still recovering from the peanut incidents, but they’d managed to hit both a triple and a 2-run home run. The Tacos were doing great, but so were the Charleston Shoe Thieves. The game had been tied 13-13 for a while, and both teams were getting impatient. Currently, it was the bottom of the fourteenth inning, and Wyatt was sitting on the sidelines.

They were talking to Lee Davenport, an old family friend. Lee was saying something about Naruto, but Wyatt wasn’t paying too much attention. Not that they didn’t care, they were just focused on the game. Taiga Quitter had just hit a single, but they didn’t get a chance to score. Moses Simmons hit a flyout, the inning became an outing, and they moved on to the fifteenth.

“But then we find out that Sasuke actually-- oh, it’s still going,” Lee remarked, their teammate’s flyout cutting their explanation short. He got up from his seat with a sigh as the Tacos began walking back onto the field. Wyatt trailed behind them.

“Could you _please_ end the game now?” They asked him, with a half-genuine laugh.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do,” Lee responded. He adjusted his hat, trying to keep the sun out of his eyes when it wasn’t eclipsed for once.

“Oh, uh-” Wyatt stammered, caught a bit off guard. “That, um, that was a joke, sorry.” They pulled at the sleeves of their jersey awkwardly, as if that would somehow help. They didn’t mean to be rude, and now Lee seemed annoyed. 

“No, no, I know, don’t worry.” Lee slowed down a bit to walk beside them. They smiled at them, a smile Wyatt could tell was genuine. “Sorry."

“Oh, uh, it’s okay! I’m just not the best at… telling… things. Like if someone really means something or not.” Wyatt didn’t think it was a great explanation, but their friend nodded. Then they remembered that they actually had to play, and started towards their position. “Anyways, uh, you got this! Good luck!” They called, waving as they ran.

Wyatt turned around as they reached their destination, watching Lee. They weren’t very good at defense, partially because of their tendency to cheer on the pitcher rather than watching the ball. They weren’t very good at consistently paying attention, either. But Lee Davenport was their friend, and they wanted to watch. Unfortunately, they weren’t doing great.

Ren Hunter draws a walk, before Velasquez Alstott immediately hits a single. Wyatt was shifting their weight back and forth, anxious. They knew Lee could stop them. They always believed that even the worst games could turn around. But the odds weren’t in their favor today. The odds were never in Wyatt Mason’s favor, or the favor of the Tacos as a whole. 

Antonio Wallace hit a single, scoring a run for the Shoe Thieves. But that was okay, the Tacos were the home team. They still had a chance. Wyatt watched as Stu Trololol struck out, cheering for their pitcher. Sebastian Woodman walked up to the plate, or appeared, or something. Wyatt wasn’t totally sure. But they drew a walk as well, loading the bases. It was always scary when the bases were loaded, and there were still two ins to go.

“Come on, Lee…” They mumbled under their breath, hoping nothing too bad would happen.

Workman Gloom stepped up. Wyatt didn’t really know them, but they liked their dog. They weren’t sure how or why he was able to pitch, though. Wyatt needed to stop getting distracted, because the Thieves scored again. This was really not looking good. Esme Ramsey drew a walk, scoring yet again. They sighed, a bit annoyed. Not at Lee, but at the other team.

Wyatt had known them long enough to tell that Lee was getting annoyed, too. Thankfully, they were able to strike out Blankenship Fischer. Wyatt was glad, they thought they were kind of scary. But now Morrow Doyle was up, and that’s where everything went wrong.

They stepped up to the plate with their bat in hand, ready to end off this remarkable half inning for the Shoe Thieves. They glanced over to see Esme on first. She was giving them a thumbs up, ready to sprint. They focused their attention back on Lee, who looked… very serious. He seemed ready to end this, too, with two ins already out. He wound back his arm and threw a fastball. A very fast ball. Too fast, even. Morrow swung at it, but wasn’t fast enough. They looked back up at Lee, a bit confused. Even the best pitcher shouldn’t have been able to throw it that fast. And Lee Davenport definitely wasn’t the best pitcher. They were looking down at the ball in their hand, seemingly annoyed by… something. They took a deep breath before throwing again. 

Wyatt didn’t have the clearest view, and they definitely didn’t know what was going on at first, but they saw it. They saw Lee throw the even faster ball, going too fast for them to process. They saw Morrow hit the ball, somehow. It seemed like it would have been impossible, when the ball was thrown at 502mph. But they hit it, and they ran, and all the other batters ran too. Morrow Doyle hit the ball, but now the ball was just gone. That probably counted as a grand slam, bringing the score to 20-13, Shoe Thieves. But the score didn’t matter anymore.

  
  


The ball was gone, to somewhere. Wyatt didn’t know where. Morrow didn’t know where. Lee certainly didn’t either. Yet Wyatt was seemingly the only one so far to notice the sky above Al Pastor Memorial Stadium. It was… wrong. It looked as if it had been shattered, like a sheet of glass. The sky was purple, or maybe yellow, or maybe green. It was somehow all of those at once. The horizon was shifting and the field was cut in half by multicolored rifts that maybe weren’t there. Wyatt was still just standing there, frozen with shock. They didn’t know what was happening-- _what was happening?_

Morrow Doyle glanced up at the sky and stopped running, startled. And then they were gone. Wyatt just blinked and suddenly they weren’t on the field, they weren’t in the dugout, they weren’t anywhere. Lee looked up too, and nearly fell over. What was that? That wasn’t supposed to happen. They weren’t trying to do that. Oh my god, what did they do?

Everyone else just kept on going, seemingly not noticing or caring. The Thieves were cheering for Morrow, but they weren’t there. Ren Hunter stepped up to the plate, and Lee had to keep going. Wyatt didn’t have time to process what was going on but they understood, somehow. To an extent, at least. But now Morrow Doyle was up, and that’s where everything went wrong.

They stepped up to the plate with their bat in hand, ready to end off this remarkable half inning for the Shoe Thieves. But the half inning was already over, and the Tacos were batting now. Someone hit the ball, Wyatt thought. But now Morrow Doyle was at the plate again. No, that wasn’t right, Morrow was busy having every fiber of their existence pulled apart. And Lee Davenport was too busy throwing the too fast too loud too much of everything ball that they threw just now.

Everything was getting too loud. It was just too much, generally. Too much to look at, to hear, to try to process, to remember. It was like when a microphone picks up its own output. Things just kept repeating, building and building until it was too much to bear and too much for the bridge to hold before it collapses into the water, before the Bridge collapses between realities. Wyatt could feel it, too. They could feel the fabric of the universe starting to fray at the edges. They didn’t know why. They were the only one who could, besides maybe Lee. But Lee was still throwing the ball, over and over and over until there was nothing left to throw. Players flickered in and out of existence, flickered between positions. A Taco was batting. Then a Shoe Thief. Wyatt was not. Wyatt stood in the outfield, trying to think. Trying to process all of this.

Trying their hardest just to _focus._

Maybe that was it. Maybe that’s how this could stop. Everything was going by too fast with too much happening. They needed it to pause for a moment. Focus on just one thing. Except not just them. That was the real problem. They needed the entirety of existence to slow down and stop on one point in time. But that couldn’t just happen.

They decided to do something, at least. They dropped their glove and started running towards the bases. Morrow Doyle was back, standing on the plate. They were gripping their bat harder than they needed to. Tighter than they should be. And they were shaking, seemingly out of breath. They were staring at Lee until they noticed Wyatt running up towards them. They seemed a bit panicked.

“Hey, wait,” They said to Wyatt, voice shaky. “What are you d-” Lee Davenport threw the ball. They had to, after all. Morrow Doyle hit it, of course. What else could they do? Wyatt was standing in the outfield, and, oh gods it’s happening to them too. Morrow said something and Lee Dovenpart turned around, trying to find Wyatt. Wait, hang on, no. Their name was Lee _Davenport._ Wyatt must have misspelled it in their head somehow. No, that didn’t make any sense. Their hair was too red, anyways. Wyatt’s eyes met Lee’s. They looked upset, guilty, scared.

Wyatt was running again. They had to do something. Reality was flickering, whatever that meant. The birds above them were screeching and screeching and screeching, high pitched and irritating in a way that didn’t sound much like birds at all. They didn’t know how to help but they wanted to. They needed to. They had to help their friends.

“Lee! What’s going on!?” They yelled as they ran up. Lee turned again, because he wasn’t turned around this time. Again, they looked scared. Worried. Something Wyatt didn’t see in them too often. 

“Wyatt, stop, you’re going to-” He managed to say as Wyatt slid to a stop beside them. But they didn’t have time, they had to say something, so they cut him off.

“No, I’m going to help! I don’t know how but I- I’ll- I’ll think of something!”

And Wyatt was back in the outfield, and it was getting worse. The sky was dark, but not like in an eclipse. Yet the field was bright, brighter than it should be. And Wyatt could feel the pull of it, the same thing Lee and Morrow had been feeling for the past however long. A slight nausea that sat at their core and made everything feel a bit fuzzy, like they were losing the physicality of the world. That description wouldn’t make sense to anyone but the three of them. 

They were swapping back and forth, now. Morrow Doyle batting. Wyatt Mason pitching. Wyatt Mason in the outfield. No, that was normal. Wait, no, that’s wrong. Wyatt Mason is the unremarkable one. Wyatt Mason is the one who ate two peanuts. Wyatt Mason is the one running towards the bases as the other Tacos on defense phase out of existence, or at least out of the field. And they keep running, past where they should be, and they’re running into the outfield again, and like the other two, they are stuck. 

“No, no, no, come _on,”_ they tell themself as it all starts to reach its peak. The pressure is building, the noise is deafening, the Bridge is falling apart and so is Wyatt Mason as they look across the field. 

And then they do something. They aren’t sure what it is, but it’s something. And it’s enough.

The skies are shifting and Wyatt Mason is standing in the outfield. Wyatt Mason is on their knees, trying to remind themself that the world is still there and they still have time and they still have a chance and they still have hope. Maybe that’s it. 

“Come on, Wyatt…” They mumble to themself, closing their eyes tight. And they’re hoping, hoping that everything will be okay in the end and they can save their friends and get out of here. They’re trying to find a point that isn’t weird. Something they can use to ground themself. Somewhere, something that isn’t fluctuating like reality is.

“Just… _focus!”_

And it’s enough. Enough to stop the flickering and the screeching and the curveball and the grand slam and the outfield as Wyatt Mason stands on home plate, bat in hand. It’s the bottom of the fifteenth inning, 17-13 Shoe Thieves. The field was back to normal, but Wyatt’s ears are still ringing, and. And maybe they score, but they couldn’t tell, because they’re too busy trying to ignore the Feedback threatening to tear them apart, to pull them away from their teammates and into somewhere else. 

And it overtakes them, for a moment, as they flicker between planes and off the field, into the dugout. They’re sitting on the ground, leaning against the bench. Lee Davenport is crouched down beside them, the concern on their face obvious.

“Wyatt- Wyatt, are you okay?” He asked, placing a hand on their shoulder. Wyatt sits up, still very not-okay. They rub their head, groaning slightly.

“Um… I- I don’t know.” That wasn’t a lie. Things were back to normal, so that was good, but Wyatt definitely was not. “You still have it too, right?” They asked Lee. The look of confusion that appeared on his face was not a good sign.

“Uh, what?”

“The, uh, ringing…? And feeling sick, or- or whatever, except a lot… worse…” Wyatt trailed off, realizing that Lee did not, in fact, know what they were talking about. Great.

“Oh god, Wyatt, I’m so sorry-” Lee covered their mouth with a hand. “It’s my fault, I didn’t know it would- and now whatever this is…” They were panicking, which is a pretty reasonable reaction when the fabric of time is torn in half right before your eyes.

“Hey, it- it’s not your fault!”

“It is, I threw the stupid quantum curveball and then everything went to shit!”

“Oh, so that’s what it was… But- but you didn’t mean to! You didn’t mean to… to…” Wyatt couldn’t find the right words. They truly didn’t believe it was his fault, but...

“Ruin everything?”

“I- No! But, well…” They didn’t want to be rude, but everything _did_ get pretty ruined. Instead, they said, “It- it doesn’t matter anymore! I fixed it, somehow, I think. Now everything is fine again!”

“But _you_ aren’t,” Lee pointed out. Wyatt opened their mouth to protest, but they realized that they were right. They felt absolutely terrible, like they would fall over the second they stood up, and, gods, what was that _noise?_ They weren’t sure if they’d be able to play the next game, but they didn’t have much of a choice. The two of them sat there for a few moments, before Lee asked, “How did you… do that?”

“Like, fix it…?” Wyatt pulled their legs in, sitting in a little ball.

“Yeah.”

“Um, I don’t really know. It just kind of… happened? Like, I just kind of… tried really hard, and then it was back to normal, kinda.”

“What were you trying to do, though?”

“I… don’t know. Sorry, it’s just… weird.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.” Lee sighed and took off his hat. He plopped it down onto Wyatt’s head, covering the messy bits they had forgotten to brush. Wyatt took a deep, rather shaky breath, finally starting to fully calm down.

“So… what do we do now?” They asked. It was a good question, too. There’s no way they couldn’t just ignore all of that, but they’d already talked about everything they could, mostly. But they didn’t have time to worry about that, as Taiga Quitter had just walked over.

“Hey, uhh, are you two okay? You’ve just been sitting here, talking about… something. Actually, yeah, what on earth are you two talking about?” She asked, looking pretty concerned for their teammates. Wyatt glanced at Lee before asking,  
  


“Uh, the… grand slam? And all of that…?” They scratched their head, a little confused. How would she not know what they were talking about? Taiga just narrowed their eyes at that answer, looking even more confused.

“What grand slam?”

Wyatt looked at Lee, as if asking for help. He just shrugged, unsure of what to say.

“Uh, when, um…” Wyatt continued, “Morrow Doyle was up, and they hit it… and then a lot of bad things started happening…” They trailed off, not seeing any sort of change in Taiga’s expression.

“Ooooo-kay, well, I have no clue what you mean. There wasn’t a grand slam this game.” They glanced out at the field. “Unless Baldwin hits it, hopefully. I’m just gonna leave you to it, I guess.” Taiga shrugged and walked back to her seat, watching the game. A few moments later, a whistle sounded, and the game was called to an end. The Tacos still on base started filing into the dugout, all a bit disappointed. 

“At least the game is finally over. That took forever,” Wyatt heard someone say. They thought it was Polk, but they were having a hard time focusing on everyone around them. They were just staring out towards the field when Lee addressed them again.

“Will you be okay?” They asked. Wyatt blinked back to attention, a bit caught off guard.

“What? Oh, sorry. Um, I… I hope so.”

The only thing they could do for the moment was hope.

\-------------------------------

_Spacetime Tears over Los Angeles_

_The Infinite cit(ies) shine_

Wyatt Mason was paranoid. Ever since day 73, things were different for them. They didn’t feel great. Their balance was thrown off, they were more tired, and they always seemed to have a headache. That was probably caused by the ringing. The constant noise at the back of their mind, threatening to explode into something even louder. And that wasn’t all, either.

Solar Eclipses were never fun, but they were even scarier now. For the first time, the umpires at the edges of the field had been staring at _them._ Nothing had happened to them, or any of the other Tacos, thankfully. But within a week of what the press was calling the “Grand Unslam,” Wyatt had witnessed 3 incinerations. That on its own had been enough to worry them.

Lee Davenport was paranoid too, for different reasons. ILB2K██ was a fun game, but one they didn’t enjoy. It had a strange and eerie pattern of predicting the future, or something. The game had been using their likeness from before they even joined a blaseball team, and on top of that, it had misspelled their name. But now the character previously displayed as “Lee Dovenpart” was listed as “Lee Devanport.” Lee didn’t know what this could mean, but he was sure it meant _something._ Even on top of that, they had started to experience some of the same side effects Wyatt had mentioned to them before.

The two of them were in similar boats. More similar than they realized. And that fact wouldn’t become clear until the elections.

The Los Angeles Tacos were seated in a sort of living room in Al Pastor Memorial Stadium, all of them focused on the television. There was still about an hour until election results were processed and broadcasted, but they liked to prepare.

“I think any blessing would be good at this point,” Patel Beyonce was saying. His comment was met by laughs from some of the team, but Wyatt shifted in their seat uncomfortably. 

“I don’t want to leave you guys though, I like the Tacos…” They said, pulling in their knees. The election ballot this season had many blessings that stole or swapped players between teams. Specifically, Wyatt was worried about the one to send away the team’s worst batter. They were pretty sure that was them. The room went quiet for just a moment before Patel responded again.

“Oh no, of course, any blessings but those. Sorry, Wyatt, I just meant how we don’t have a lot of fans.” He said, trying his best to cheer them up. 

“Kinda dumb, honestly,” Polk said from across the room. Their pet rat, Rat, was sitting on their lap. “We should get to vote, too. Why do the fans get to decide what happens? They aren’t even the ones playing.” Before the conversation could continue, there was a knock from down the hall. 

“I’ll get that,” Lee said as he rose out of his seat. They turned the corner down the hall and the room went quiet. They didn’t usually get too many visitors, and especially not this close to elections.

“So, did someone order a pizza and not say anything?” Taiga joked. Most of the Tacos still in the room laughed, but that laughing came to a stop as Lee Davenport appeared again. They looked a bit worried.

“Hey, uh. Me, Wyatt, and Sexton are supposed to go… do something?” They said, scratching their head awkwardly.

“Really? This close to the election? What is it?” Asked Baldwin, glancing back and forth between Wyatt and Sexton skeptically. 

“I don’t know. But it’s, um, a… special request from the commissioner?” That just made everyone even more confused. Wyatt got up from their seat and walked over to Lee, as Sexton Wheeler did the same. 

“Lee, is this about-” Wyatt started to ask quietly, but Lee cut them off.

“I don’t know, maybe. I don’t know any more than you do.” 

Wyatt didn’t really like the sound of that, but there wasn’t much they could do about it. Instead they turned around and waved to the rest of the team before they headed down the hall and out the door.

“Tell me what happens later!” They called. A few of the Tacos waved back.

“Don’t die!” Called Polk with a laugh. Wyatt knew it was a lighthearted joke, but it didn’t stop them from worrying.

The ride was awkward and uncomfortable. The three of them packed into the back of an ILB official’s car, riding to the ILB offices. They never got a good look at the driver, but they didn’t particularly want to, anyways. The umpires worked for the ILB, and they weren’t usually the friendliest. Nobody really talked during the ride. Lee was staring out the window, Sexton was mostly just looking around the car, and Wyatt was fiddling aimlessly with their phone. They weren’t even playing a game, they just needed something to _do_. 

It was a good thing the offices were in Los Angeles, or the drive would have been even more unbearable. None of them had been here before, and it was largely underwhelming. On the outside, the offices were just a plain old building. Too tall, with too many windows. The inside wasn’t very impressive, either. At least not the parts the three of them got to see.

They were met at the door by two umpires, both in business suits. This put the group a bit on edge, but they each tried their best not to worry about it. They escorted the Tacos into an elevator, where they began the long trip up. Wyatt was still a bit anxious, but their excitement was starting to catch up to them. After a few moments, they worked up the courage to ask their escorts a question.

“Um, excuse me, but… are we gonna get to meet the commissioner? Like in person? Because that would be cool. Oh, and, he’s doing a great job by the way.” One of the umpires barely turned their head to face them. After a moment of silence, they answered.

“NO.”

Their booming voice rang throughout the small elevator. Wyatt shrunk back, a bit intimidated.

“Ah, okay. Um… s- sorry.” Wyatt didn’t ask another question.

They arrived at floor 19 after a minute or two. The umps led them down the hallway and into a seemingly normal room. There wasn’t much in the room, really. There were three stools placed in a semicircle, with a microphone stand in front of each of them. All three were connected to a different microphone on the other side of the room. The air around it seemed to waver. Wyatt thought that was weird. But for now they had something else to do. 

One umpire motioned broadly to the stools, as if telling them to sit down. They did.

“YOU WILL BE RECORDING YOUR INTERVIEWS,” the other one boomed. Wyatt assumed they were talking about one of the decrees on the ballot this season, Interviews. Why the three of them were first, they weren’t sure. They glanced at the analog clock on the wall. There was still half an hour until the election results would air on TV. 

“SEXTON WHEELER, YOU WILL BEGIN. STATE YOUR NAME, BLOOD TYPE, COFFEE PREFERENCE, AND ANYTHING ELSE YOU WOULD LIKE TO SAY BEFORE WE ARE FINISHED.”

As the first umpire flicked a switch on the central microphone, _The_ Microphone, Sexton cleared his throat.

“Uh, hey,” he began, “my name is Sexton Wheeler. Uh, my blood type is love, I drink my coffee with a milk substitute, and for my entire childhood I was raised by wheels. When I was 10, my-“

“THAT IS ENOUGH.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” 

The first umpire was fiddling with dials on a speaker of some sort, and they nodded at the other one. The second umpire spoke again.

“LEE DOVENPART, BEGIN.”

Lee looked a little offended, if not surprised, at this. They scooted their seat forwards before speaking. 

“Um, okay, well. My name is Lee _Davenport._ That’s D-A-V-E-N-P-O-R-T. I like espresso, and my blood type is also love.” He looked a little uncomfortable. Wyatt wasn’t exactly sure why.

After flicking a couple switches and cranking a couple dials, the umpire addressed the only person not to be interviewed yet.

“WYATT MASON,” they ordered, not even needing to finish the sentence. Umpires were intimidating, and it was never fun to have them staring you down. Even when they weren’t on the field, Wyatt was instantly feeling more anxious than they were at first. They leaned forward and tapped their microphone, then spoke.

“Hello?” They said, not really asking a question. But when they spoke, something different happened. Their voice came out through the speaker, something that hadn’t happened for the other two players. The umpires seemed startled, turning to look at each other, before the one bent down to fiddle with the settings again. Wyatt paid them no mind.

“Echoooo…” They said into it with a laugh, simply messing around with the fact that their voice was quietly reverberating around the room. They almost forgot that they were supposed to be doing an interview. 

“Oh yeah! Uh, so, um, my blood type is also love, that’s kinda funny. And I don’t drink coffee usually, but I like cold brew!” They paused for a moment. “Oh yeah, and uh, my name is Wyatt. Mason, that is. My name is Wyatt Mason. Um, was that good?”

Neither umpire responded as Wyatt scooted back. The first one was grumbling, seemingly trying to fix something with the speaker. Wyatt glanced over at Lee, a little confused. The other umpire looked down at the speaker before turning their gaze on Wyatt again. 

“MASON, REPEAT THAT.” 

“Oh, uh, okay,” they responded, voice wavering slightly. They pulled at the sleeves of their shirt anxiously. They leaned forward again, grabbing their microphone off the stand. “Um, my name is Wyatt Mason—“

They didn’t say much before the speaker started acting weird again. Wyatt could hear their voice glitching out slightly as it echoed. This hadn’t happened for anyone else. The first umpire let out an annoyed sigh, kneeling down again. 

“THE FREQUENCIES WILL BE ENOUGH,” said the second umpire. “JUST START TRANSFERRING THEM.” 

“FINE,” the first one replied. They clicked something on the speaker and flipped a switch on the microphone before leaving the room. Wyatt looked at Lee and Sexton awkwardly, not really sure what to do. They’d already finished, hadn’t they?

“Hey, um…” Wyatt spoke up. “Can we… can we go now…?” They asked. The umpire’s eyes narrowed.

“NO. THE PROCESS HAS ONLY JUST BEGUN.”

Wyatt opened their mouth to say something else, but stopped. That… really didn’t sound good. And what sounded even worse was the noise the three of them would hear in the next few moments.

It started as a kind of low rumble, but still loud. As if someone had turned up the bass on a song. It rung in their ears and sat there, as if it was coming from everywhere all at once. But that wasn’t what worried Wyatt most, or Lee for that matter. It was the _feeling_ of it. The strange nausea they could feel in the pit of their stomach, the dizziness that set in out of nowhere, the same thing Wyatt Mason had been feeling for the last few weeks. The temporal force threatening to tear them apart from the inside.

The noise was terrible. It quickly grew into a loud piercing shriek, almost physically painful to listen to. Wyatt covered their ears, grimacing. They glanced over at Lee, as if asking for help, and was a bit surprised. Lee’s form seemed to blur at the edges, different colors overlapping on top of each other. Chromatic aberration, that’s what it was called. But Lee didn’t notice. Instead they stood up from their chair, faltering for a moment, before glaring at the umpire. 

“Okay, what the hell is this?” He demanded. But his anger turned into fear as the ump stepped forward menacingly.

“DO NOT INTERFERE WITH THE DELOCALIZATION, DAVENPORT.” The shadowy form of the umpire towered over Lee, who was already the tallest out of the three of them. They stumbled backwards, realizing that they’d really screwed this up. Wyatt panicked, standing up and knocking their stool to the ground.

“W- wait, don’t- don’t hurt him! He’s my friend!” Wyatt blurted out, not thinking. Lee and Sexton looked to Wyatt, concern obvious in their eyes.

“Wyatt, what are you--” Sexton started to say as the umpire turned its head. Wyatt froze, only now remembering that this was an umpire. And it was even scarier up close. They frantically glanced between their friends and the umpire, before coming up with an idea. 

It was simple. They ran.

They ducked around the umpire and it snarled, whipping around to face them as they ran for the door. The door, unfortunately, was locked. Wyatt turned to see the umpire coming towards them again, malice in its eyes. They didn’t know what to do. They were stuck between a wall and an umpire and the only thing near them was the Microphone.

Wait. The Microphone. 

They didn’t know what they were doing, or if it would even help, but they ran to the Microphone, thoughts racing. As they grabbed the stand, their stomach lurched. They grabbed onto it, trying not to fall over from the nausea. Wyatt Mason looked at the microphone on the stand, and hesitated. What if this didn’t do anything? What if this just made things worse? They didn’t have much time to worry about these, however, as the umpire lunged towards them. In a moment of panic, they gripped the Microphone itself.

And lifted.

Maybe Lee had yelled, but Wyatt couldn’t hear. Wyatt couldn’t hear anything except the Feedback. It was just too loud. The noise rang out all across Los Angeles, and all across every other Los Angeles as spacetime tore in the skies above them. Wyatt Mason was yelling, yelling at the umpire who had just attacked their friend. Wyatt Mason was cheering with their team as they watched the news. The Unlimited Tacos had finally won a good blessing. And Wyatt Mason was panicking as their vision blurred and they weren’t in that room anymore and they didn’t know where they were or who they were or what was going on but they didn’t have time to process that before everything went black.

\-------------------------------

_You’ve looked too close..._

When Wyatt Mason came to their senses, they were laying on the ground somewhere. The kid sat up with a groan, holding their head. It hurt, a lot. They thought it felt like their brain had been scrambled around and haphazardly thrown back together, and they wouldn’t be completely wrong. 

But they were having a hard time trying to process what happened. Trying to remember how they got here. They were _just_ sitting in a chair in the stadium sitting on the floor next to their friend getting up to go get a snack watching the skyline as it shifted pulling the microphone off of its stand and blacking out. No, none of that seemed right.

They were a person, not fourteen of them, but everything they were remembering seemed to say otherwise. Instead of trying to figure all of that out, they got to their feet and looked around. 

They were… somewhere. Somewhere dark. They couldn’t see anything around them, just darkness for what looked like miles. They began walking through the dark, searching for any sign of other people, and nearly tripped. There was something on the ground, some sort of… wire. If they squinted, Wyatt could see it running off into the distance. The other side of the wire led to something they had missed the first time.

They could just barely see a microphone stand, with a microphone on it. _The_ Microphone, Wyatt realized. They walked toward it, wary. The Microphone had done something bad the last time they had touched it, they were sure of that. But it was the only thing around. Just to be safe, they were going to wait before touching it again. So they stepped away, looking out into the darkness again.

“Hellooo??” They called out, as if anyone else would be able to hear them. Their voice didn’t seem to carry at all, which felt strange. No one other than them was here, anyways. At least their voice was normal. A voice that would belong to one person only.

They turned back towards the Microphone, sighing. They knew they were probably going to mess something up, but what else could they do? Wyatt stepped up to it, still wary, before grabbing the Mic and lifting it off the stand again.

And nothing happened.

Wyatt let out a sigh of relief. That was good. They hadn’t immediately broken everything like last time. They turned it over in their hand, trying to figure out what to do now. There was a light on it, displaying that it was turned on. They didn’t remember that being lit up a few moments ago. Maybe they accidentally bumped a switch, but they didn’t see one on it. 

Okay, this was fine. They could figure this out. Maybe it was some sort of puzzle. They could do puzzles. So they took a deep breath, lifted the Microphone up to their mouth, and spoke.

“Hello?”

All of a sudden, the wire attached to the Microphone lit up bright pink. And this time, their voice actually went somewhere. It went _everywhere,_ in fact, as their message reverberated around the space and echoed again and again getting louder and louder and louder. Wyatt frantically tried to stop it, covering up the microphone with their hand, but it didn’t do anything. It just got louder and louder as Wyatt’s head started to hurt more and more and everything became even more confusing. All the thoughts they’d ignored moments before came rushing back, amplified tenfold by the Microphone and echoing around them. It was just… too much. They could remember too much and see too much there was too much of everything, it was all going too fast all the games all the players and then the peanut (who was going to warn them?) and Wyatt Mason couldn’t focus.

They gripped the microphone stand, trying not to fall over from how overwhelmed they were. This was never supposed to happen. This was never supposed to happen to a _person._ Wyatt Mason was just a kid. They just wanted to play kickball. But now everything had gone wrong. Now all the temporal energy that had been inside of Wyatt since the Grand Unslam had burst out in the form of Feedback. 

They could see everything but that everything was moving too fast. They just needed it to slow down, a single point they could focus on. A single person, or game, or something. That’s what they’d done during that one game, and it had worked. They couldn’t remember much from that day, not right now. After a moment of squinting their eyes shut, they found something. Well, someone.

They were a batter for the Unlimited Tacos, practically the worst on the team. Liked cold brew coffee, had love blood, jersey number 27. But Wyatt had been number 27. Wyatt liked cold brew, and had love blood, and sucked at blaseball. Who was this new player, and why were they practically identical to them? Had the Tacos forgotten about them? Had they replaced them? They wanted to know, but it was too much for now to focus on more than this one person, in the space where Wyatt should have been. It helped, a little bit.

They were able to calm down a little, but the Feedback wasn’t stopping. It was painful to listen to. Maybe they could get used to it eventually. Maybe. But for now there didn’t seem to be much they could do about it. Or any of the things they had seen in the last few moments, for that matter.

Maybe they could do _something,_ though. Maybe they could use the Microphone, to broadcast a message to the immaterial plane and warn them of the coming danger. Maybe someone would hear them. They didn’t know if anyone _could_ hear them. They could only hope.

So they took a shaky breath, stepping back. Wyatt (Wyatts?) Mason still didn’t know what was going on or even who they _were_ for sure, but they knew their friends needed help. And they wanted to make sure they would get it.

All they had to do was hope.

**Author's Note:**

> started this a while ago, kept going longer than i expected, and only now put it up here. anyways wyatt is great im sending them capri suns asap
> 
> (lyrics in the title are from i.d. by go! child)


End file.
